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by WinterfellBaby



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And smutt, Angry!Sandor, Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, F/M, I Don't Even Know, I am good at angst, I am not good at timelines, Much smutt, Post-The Battle of the Blackwater, Sad Sansa, Sandor stays for his little bird, Timeline mess, Very AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 03:01:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8649112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterfellBaby/pseuds/WinterfellBaby
Summary: ***Currently needing a beta reader! If anyone is interested in reading for me, please comment on the latest chapter and leave an email address :) Desperate for escape, Sansa Stark, Princess of the North, sells her body to Joffrey's sworn shield, Sandor Clegane, in hopes of his assistance, and comes to learn that in the scope of the game, things are never that simple. She must deal with the consequences of her actions, navigate through the dangers of the simmering court, and above all—escape. Post-Battle of the Blackwater AU in which Sandor does not flee King's Landing, Sansa is set aside, and the Tyrells play a bigger role. AN: Sansa is aged up (not giving a specific age, reader's choice) and Sandor is about in his late 20s to early 30s. The story may begin dark, as I am a lover of angst and heartache, but I cannot bear to hurt my favorite pairing and so there will be a satisfying end for the two.





	1. bargain

**Author's Note:**

> All characters and their world belong to G.R.R.M. 
> 
> Comments are very much welcome and appreciated, constructive and commentary alike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> p.s: prologue is written in a different format than the rest of the fic :))

 

prologue: bargain

 

 

Every touch was reverent, soft.

" _You don't know what you're getting yourself into, little bird."_

His grey eyes, hot and feverish, devoured her moonlight skin with every inch that her lilly white shift exposed.

_"I'll ruin you."_

She hooked her fingers around the waist band of his breeches, pulled him closer coyly, trying to play the game.

_"Guess you did learn one thing from Cersei."_

Her hands were gone suddenly, back on the featherbed, relinquishing control to the hulking warrior above her.

He smiled, feral and wide, bunched up the thin, white shift, and tore it effortlessly, like he would her innocence.

_"Teasing an old dog won't get you anywhere."_

She closed her eyes.

Home was painted beneath her eyelids.

The flesh of her breasts tingled as he stared, and then he was probing, rubbing the sensitive skin in feather light caresses. 

_"Didn't think you'd reach so low, Lady Sansa."_

Rough lips tasted the cold sweat on her swan neck, trailed down the valley of her budding breasts, burning a path of shame intermingled with the flames of a newfound emotion within the young girl.

Desire.

The bargain had become something more.

He touched her womanhood.

_"Selling yourself to the King's dog."_

The petal folds of her most precious place, in full bloom, slick and warm.

Here lay her worth, imbedded in a thin piece of skin, stemming from the womb that would carry heirs.

And she was giving it to the Hound, laying her honor at his feet.

_"I won't be gentle."_

He thrust into her, making her slice the skin of his biceps with her long nails in agony.

It was an invasion, a conquest, nothing from the songs, or the tales, or the gentle, tame promises of her Septa.

His manhood ramming into her rawness was torture.

Until it **wasn't**.

_"There'll be no sweet kisses."_

Their lips met as the heat within them rose high and higher.

His tongue was in her mouth, tracing her lips, fighting for something.

She couldn't help but moan, and when she did, he rocked harder against her small form, drove her deeper into her featherbed.

_"And no tender words either."_

He groaned her name, her pet name, as he spilled his seed on her belly.

He rolled off of her and they lay side by side for what seemed like an eternity, breathing hard, taking it all in.

" _The wedding then."_

Then he was up, gathering his armor, fixing his hair, and the moment wilted and thawed into the reality of her life.

He threw the bed sheet in the hearth and left the room without a second glance at her still form, curled atop the bed where she had soiled her purity, tarnished her honor, and killed her maidenhood.


	2. rose thorns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sandor's a bit...prickly. Don't fret, all will be well! Hope you enjoy <3

chapter one: rose thorns

 

 

 

          Megga was mad to be kissed, and her cousins were eager to chatter about their innocently wanton desires.

Sansa felt her stomach churn at their talk. How would they respond if they knew that she, former betrothed of the King, had been kissed, had been ravaged, by his own faithful dog. Her cheeks bloomed as the girls continued to speak of the handsome, treacherous knights with their sweet words and false honor.

"How I wish for a tourney!" Alla sighed, batting her lashes at Megga, Elinor, and Sansa. The Stark remembered the last tourney, how foolish she'd been, how naive. She had pined after the Knight of Flowers, and when he had bestowed upon her the crown proclaiming her Queen of Love and Beauty, she had swooned and puffed up with pride and joy. She had chirped her courtesies like the trained songbird she was. She stared at her reflection in the silver chalice before her and admitted that she was still that stupid little bird. That all she could do was continue to sing in order to keep her pretty little head.

"Sansa, you've been to one," Megga tactlessly nudged the older girl, monetarily forgetting that the tourney had been in honor of her traitor father. Elinor elbowed her younger relative harshly, throwing a dark look down at her.

"Megga, it's not proper to speak of that," she scolded, and an awkward cloud settled over the small group. Sansa could sense their thoughts of her wilting like leaves in the face of winter, spoiling as the memory of who she was filled the silence, demanded the attention of everyone at the table. Even though the girls were not the brightest, the most friendly, they were girls, and Sansa longed for company, even the useless, redundant conversation the Tyrell girls offered.

"It was...fun," Sansa forced a smile," there were so many gallant knights on their huge steeds, and fair ladies gifting their favors," she paused, remembered how she'd so desperately wanted to bestow a sliver of lace on an honorable knight deserving of her devotion," and excitement." The girls looked moonstruck, eyes wide, maidenly hearts thumping, stupid little heads dreaming. Elinor had a pretty blush. She resented them for being so naive, she resented them for still being unspoiled, and most of all, she resented them for the simple fact that they were blind, and she was no longer unseeing.

"Lady Sansa," Margaery Tyrell called her from farther down the table," my grandmother and I wish to speak to you of a matter of great importance." Sansa, filled with hope and nervousness, excused herself from the girls and approached the Tyrell matriarch and future Queen timidly.

 

 

––

 

 

_What a fool! What an utter fool._

She fought hard to keep the tears swimming in her eyes from escaping, walking rigidly before Clegane. Ever since Joffrey had broken his betrothal to her, Clegane had been assigned to escort her everywhere and it seemed as if her demotion in rank meant a tighter leash. She had to be gone soon, or they would find some other terrible lord to marry her against her will, or let Joffrey take her as his mistress, as he had told the whole court he would do.

Sansa could feel his eyes on her back, burning through her dress and shift and smallclothes to the luscious skin beneath, his lust thick in the air. It made her want to cry all the more. That she had given herself to him, the King's dog, the second son of a minor house, just before she had been presented the opportunity of marrying the future head of House Tyrell, sweet, gallant, sensitive Willas, made her want to throw herself on her featherbed and weep. _How much more stupid can I be?_

When they reached the door of her chambers, she turned to bid him farewell behind bleary eyes and a watery voice. It was all for naught, though, because before she could open her mouth to speak he was shoving her into her gilded cage and bolting the heavy door behind them.

"What's the matter, little bird?" he rasped, half menace, half concern. His callused hand was on her shoulder, bringing images of rough fingertips on soft skin beneath the cover of darkness to her mind. She blushed as red as her hair, making the corner of his strange lips, only half mutilated, twitch with ire, or mayhaps something akin to humor.

"Nothing is wrong," she whispered, pushed his form away gently. He moved back, leaving more space between the two, but continued his assessment of her.

"Didn't think you'd break your damned courtesies," he said. "No ser for me?" he asked as he looked toward her bed. "Makes sense after..." He didn't have to finish his sentence for her to look at him as if stricken, cheeks ablaze.

"You snap at me when I call you by your proper title," she threw back at him, voice infuriatingly childlike," and you snap at me when I don't!" The frustration mounting on her ever since her meeting with Margaery weighed down on her, threatening to crush her slender body. He saw the wobble of her bottom lip and squeezed her shoulder again.

"Never mind that," he grumbled," tell me what happened with that Tyrell girl." She wanted him to leave, wanted to bury herself in her lavish bed sheets and cry like a small child, or a royal hostage mistreated and at her wits' end. Instead, she shoved at his chest, catching him off guard.

"I am an utter fool," she growled," a complete and utter idiot! Ollenna Tyrell arranged a marriage between her oldest grandson and I, and I-" she looked toward the window slit, looked out to the glaring King's Landing sky," I am already ruined." Through the unshed tears she saw him—this man who she had allowed to corrupt her—bury his mirth beaneath a somber look, but even before she could take a breath, he was croaking a bitter laugh, sound like steel grating against her nerves.

Even though she knew him to be blunt and ungentle, she was still disappointed that he was not more understanding, more kind. She turned away from him, and this time, when the tears pushed to the corner of her large, lovely, Tully eyes, she allowed them to roll down her cheeks.

"Bloody hells, little bird," he rasped, voice chock full of rancid amusement," you can't say I didn't warn you," he continued, lifted a hard hand to her cheek almost gently, taking her tears with his thumb.

" _You don't know what you're getting yourself into, little bird."_ She closed her eyes to the memory of his voice, dark with longing for her sweet body and scorn for her downfall into the ways of the sinful world. He pressed closer.

"You can't marry the proud lordling," he said, so low it was almost a whisper," but you can be free," he accentuated the last word with a flick of his thumb, sending a warm, salty droplet of her sadness flying into the air. She wanted to fly so badly, wanted to fly straight out of the bars of the cage the King had trapped her in with his deceit and her youthful naivety.

"The wedding?" she asked him, big eyes searching. He nodded, look grim, and let his hand drop from her soft cheek slowly, lingeringly. She knew he wanted her. But she also knew that he wouldn't take her by force, that their agreement never stated any other occasion other than the first.

"Aye," he assured, then turned to the door, only a few feet away from their whole exchange. Only now did the fear of Varys' little birds creep into her mind. If they had heard anything, her head was on a spike without a doubt. A look into Clegane's eyes revealed a similar realization. "Seven hells," he cursed softly as he slipped out of her room.

 _Seven hells indeed,_ she thought, climbed atop her bed, and dreamed of another world. A different home was beneath her lids that evening, one of her own making.

 

 

 


	3. baby steps

 

chapter two: baby steps

 

 

  
  
"He is quite fearsome," Megga whispered to Sansa, round cheeks flushed in light of the oppressing King's Landing heat. Sansa looked back at Clegane, who was observing the surrounding foliage, and happened to disagree with the younger girl.  _ He's not that frightening, _ she told herself as she continued to walk by the Tyrell's side.    
  
They were in one of the Red Keep's refreshingly empty courtyards, strolling along the stone pathways and soaking the sunshine that filtered through the canopy of flowering trees. If the palace had not held so many horrors for her, she would have found it quite beautiful bathed in the brilliant afternoon light.    
  
"Why does the King give you such a hideous guard?" Megga persisted and internally, Sansa consented that Joffrey's foremost purpose in enlisting Clegane as her guard was to terrorize her, to make her quake with fear at having such a fierce warrior around her almost every waking hour. She donned a practiced smile for the girl, her best and brightest.   
  
"The King is most gracious in allowing his loyal shield to ensure my protection," she sighed, feigned admiration for the monster she had narrowly avoided being married to. Megga, poor little thing with a head full of fantasies, ate the deception from the palm of her hand like a well-trained mare.   
  
"You have immense luck," she chirped at Sansa," to still hold such favor with the King after all your House has done," she trampled on. Sansa lost all color. She did not know if the girl was truly, hopelessly tactless, or if she meant to wound her with her barbed observations. No matter what the girl's intentions were, Sansa was obliged to place her mask on her face and lie through her straight, white teeth.    
  
"I marvel at it myself," she lowered her eyes down to the worn stones modestly," His Grace is so very charitable and just." Megga, with her thunderously loud steps, so unbecoming of a lady, almost drowned out the sound of Sandor Clegane snorting at her pretty lies behind them. Almost.    
  
Megga's plump shadow stretched across the walkway, straight to where five other youths were gathered around a long, squat bench. They squealed in excitement when they laid eyes on their cousin, but Sansa did not fail to register how their tones dropped, how their eyes sharpened, when they saw her willowy shape and curtain of copper curls behind their comparatively less comely relation.  _ They're...jealous _ , she realized, heart beating faster as she recognized the look in their eyes when they greeted her lukewarmly.    
  
"Lady Sansa," Elinor, the eldest, called out to her with questionable warmth," how do you fare this afternoon?" Every eye was on her. She took a dainty seat next to Megga and smoothed her skirts dutifully.    
  
"Megga's company has made my day," she cooed at the young woman, whose features softened in a quiet satisfaction. The rest of the girls melted at her signal, pulling Sansa into their conversation quickly.    
  
"We have a bet going!" Alla squeaked out, a jumble of nervous exhilaration. The girls tittered at their well-tucked deviance. Despite knowing better, Sansa's lips curled too, joining in on the revelry. "You see, we want to know how long it'll take for your big, bad shadow to crack," she whispered into the circle, and Sansa's smile faltered.    
  
"What do you mean?" she asked the group of Tyrell youths, looking from one pair of big eyes to the next for an answer. All of the girls were pink-cheeked, eyes gleeful, smiles cutting.    
  
"Oh, Sansa," Elinor chimed," a man like him, deprived, ugly, and scarred..." she paused to look around at her companions, seeking encouragement. "Well, how long will he be able to resist your maidenly charms?" Sansa felt the hot blood rush into her face and the roses surrounding her chortled.  _ If only they knew.  _   
  
"You should not speak like that," Sansa hissed at them, but their smiles only widened, their laughs grew harsh and grating.    
  
"I do believe you are not in a position to scold  _ us, Lady Stark _ !" Alla jabbed, earning another round of derisive laughter. She curled her hands into fists, nails cutting the untested skin of her palms. The girls, just like the other court retainers, looked down at her, and saw fit to ridicule her. But these girls, stupid and young and only lower branch Tyrells, were not Joffrey, whose abuse she had to swallow bitterly. They were only girls and she was a Stark, a wolf. She was a lady, with her courtesy a fine armor.    
  
"Oh, you do not need a high position to scold silly little girls," she smiled at them, sickly sweet, and stood to depart. "Excuse me," she curtsied, an art she had perfected since before she could read or write, and walked away on light feet. She could feel them staring long after she had left the dumbfounded and sullen congregation. Clegane, dutifully following her closely, could not hide his amusement well.    
  
-   
  
Deep in the Red Keep's small Godswood, Dontos stumbled upon an unsuspecting Sansa.    
  
"Oh, my sweet Jonquil!" He cried, clambering towards the beautiful girl sitting on a low tree branch, almost tripping on his own feet. Sansa felt mortified for him and for herself.  _ How could I have ever expected him to get me out of here _ ? The man was hardly fit to be a knight, too old and too fat by far, and incredibly foolish. None of his qualities would have assured her a safe escape from the capital, much less survival once out of it.    
  
"Ser," she called back quietly," you must needs keep quiet," she warned, fearing Clegane would hear the loud fool from the entrance, where he had remained after seeing her to the Godswood. The man did his best to steer clear from any Gods. Dontos plopped down next to her, stinking of wine and sweat.    
  
"Sweet Jonquil, I have found us a way out of here," he slurred, reaching for Sansa's small hands. "We must leave during the King's wedding, on the eve of the new year," he said, leaning closer with every word. She pulled her hands away from his, not harshly, and offered him an apologetic smile.    
  
"See Dontos," she began, softening her voice to hurt him less," I fear I do not need your assistance any longer." He looked lost rather than disappointed, eyes wide and cheeks blotchy.    
  
"B-but...you're miserable! How could you even consider remaining here, where you are terrorized, where you have no friends?" he sputtered, gripping Sansa's forearm tightly in his drunken stupor. Fear pooled in the pit of her stomach. She did not know how to reason with the unreasonable, and something told her that Dontos would not settle for a gentle hymn from her lips.    
  
"Ser, you are wrong. The Crown is ever the friend to me, a daughter and sister to traitors. l will remain under the protection of His Grace until he sees fit to gift my hand to a loyal supporter of his rule," she lied to the drunken fool, watching his flustered confusion become terror as she went on. His grip became tighter, his words more insistent.    
  
"Lady Sansa, you must come with me. You must! You cannot remain here much longer, or the Crown will use you for your claim." She looked down at her restrained arm. He followed her gaze, but did not let up.    
  
"I am happy to serve my King, Ser Dontos," she repeated her lie, drawing on her training to keep a sweet expression and a calm temperament in the face of his harsh treatment. She had learned to remain composed while being grabbed, or hit, or shoved down into the ground by men stronger than she.    
  
"What's this, little bird?"    
  
Both Sansa and Dontos the Fool turned to the sound of Clegane's voice to see him leaning against a tree not far from them, contempt on his hideous face. Dontos released her arm instantly.    
  
"S-Clegane, it's nothing really." She was standing now, words pouring out of her mouth clumsily. "Ser Dontos is simply drunk. You would know a thing or two on the situation." She couldn't help digging a thorn into his side by reminding him of the night he had thrown her onto her bed and threatened her life with a dagger, bloody face so near hers that she was consumed by the heavy smell of too much wine on his breath. His mouth twitched as he straightened himself.    
  
"Dontos," he growled at the fat fool still sitting on a branch," you ever touch the Lady Sansa again and I'll bugger you with my fucking sword." Clegane, unlike most men, did not have to raise his voice to instill fear in the weak, old ex-knight, or in anyone for that matter. His presence, his burned face, and his grating voice were enough to put another in their place. Dontos squirmed off of the branch, soiling his wine-stained clothing further by falling into the muddy ground before finally coming to stand on his unsteady feet.    
  
"M-many apologies, my lady," he bowed to Sansa and then turned to Clegane," ser." It was this mistake that finally stirred the giant guard. He moved towards Dontos, baring his teeth animalistically.    
  
"I'm no more a ser than you are, you bloody fool," he placed one great hand on the pommel of his sword, deadly sharp, and Dontos scrambled backwards, retreating into the thick vegetation he came from. He turned back to a silent Sansa. "Can't believe I helped you save that cunt's life," he grunted, turned his head to spit on the soft earth. Sansa's baby blue eyes followed the fleck of saliva and watched it land near a tangle of delicate, shinning silver. Intrigued, she moved towards the jewelry on the ground.    
  
"It looks like..." she held up a fine hairnet, all thin silver and brilliant amethyst gems throughout. "I wonder how this ended up here," she thought aloud and Clegane hummed from next to her.    
  
"Some nobles mayhaps," he told Sansa as he reached for the delicate hair accessory," decided they needed a romp here in the quiet Godswood." He grinned at her, a grotesque twist of his strange lips, as she rose from her kneeling position and dusted off her less than fine skirts, which she had owned since she had been but a slip of a girl with a head full of fantasies and songs and dreams of marrying Joffrey. In all of the nightmare she'd been forced to endure, there had never been time to think of something such as her badly outgrown clothing.    
  
"We best leave it here then," she took the dainty spun silver from his callused hands and placed it back on the ground where she had found it, where it would wait for its rightful owner to return and claim it anew. When she was back to standing straight before him, she could not avoid his searching gaze.    
  
"Those girls were wrong, earlier," he moved closer," you are far better than them. Far, far better." His voice was almost soft, a great feat when his gravelly tone was taken into account. She'd never asked him why his voice was so strange, and she probably never would, but assumed that it was another effect of Gregor shoving his face into searing coals when he was a mere child. She closed her eyes as his breath hit her face, hot and minty.    
  
"I know," she admitted, leaned forward ever so slightly. "They're only silly girls. They only seek their malicious fun is all." She opened her eyes to his, almost translucent in the weak sunlight poking through the treetops. They were, for once, not angry, not filled with the frightening rage that she had been so very afraid of when she had first seen them. Back then, his two grey pits of molten anger had shaken her even more than the charred flesh that dominated half of his face.    
  
"Everyone in the court seeks malicious fun, little bird," he said matter-of-factly. She took a microstep forward.    
  
"Even you, Clegane?" she searched the heavy-lidded eyes before her. He drew away, taking a step back from the blushing beauty so near him.   
  
"You don't have to do that." Sansa did not understand. She didn't feel obligated to do anything around him. She went back to her lonely tree branch and sat down carefully, not sure how much action the wood would take.   
  
"What do I not have to do, Clegane?" she looked up at him from beneath her lashes, long shades of auburn above pools of sapphire blue. He moved toward her sitting from, but did not try the questionable branch.    
  
"That," he groaned. "You can call me by my bloody name." Sansa picked at a raised twig, moving it to and fro.    
  
"That would be improper." He laughed, a deep bass that resonated through her and sent goosebumps crawling down her long neck.    
  
"Calling me by my last name is just as unseemly, little bird," he pointed out, not incorrectly. Sandor Clegane's proper title  _ should _ have been 'ser', but he'd made it known that he was not that, not ever a 'ser'. Only the Hound, only a killer.    
  
_ But he's so much more, isn't he?  _   
  
"Very well then," she wrung her delicate hands," Sandor." His mouth twitched again, but this time, Sansa was sure it was due to the pleasure of hearing her abandon courtesy. It felt so wrong, yet so right to call him, a grown man not of her House, by his given name.

  
"We should return now," he looked away, back to the entrance. She agreed. If they took too long in the Godswood, alone, rumors would begin to circulate and Joffrey would have to extend his loving hand towards his sworn shield. Sansa, already plagued by the knowledge that she caused the turmoil between the Iron Throne and her House, did not want to be responsible for another's pain, another's downfall.   
  
"You are right." She rose from the branch a final time and followed behind her giant companion, relishing the autumn breeze whipping her silky copper waves around her as the sun nestled into the watery horizon of the ruined Blackwater Bay.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note how Sansa doesn't take the hairnet (;


	4. making trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa sees an opportunity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments on the last chapter! I know it may not seem like a big deal, but comments really give a writer encouragement and confidence.

 

 

                chapter three: making trouble 

 

 

 

It was as the milky light of a new dawn invaded her bedchamber that her handmaiden, a small creature with ears always open and a mouth always ready to spill every detail of Sansa's days to Cersei, slithered toward the beautiful girl still sprawled on her warm featherbed.  
  
"M'lady," she drawled, her King's Landing accent thick and heavy as cream," you must wake up. The Lady Margaery wishes to break her fast with you," she reached out a work-hardened hand to Sansa's soft, round shoulder, curled her fingers around its gentle curve, and shook it roughly, making her open her ocean eyes instantly, though they lagged as she fully awoke.  
  
"Mmm." She moaned as she stretched her long legs, much to the handmaiden's annoyance. The resentful woman pulled at the silken sheet covering the half-awake beauty lounging on the mattress, leaving her slender form devoid of any warmth and finally rousing her from her pleasant dreams. The sweet dreams she had enjoyed that night were a rare occurrence. For Sansa, poor Sansa who had tattled on her father and betrayed her brother, sleep was often a time filled with horrible memories and disturbing distortions of the family she had left behind in Winterfell. "I'm awake," she croaked at the handmaiden, whose smile was smug and eyes piercing.  
  
"The bath is drawn, m'lady." And indeed it was. The large tub that occupied the adjoining chamber was filled to the brim with water. Water that was far too hot, Sansa came to tell when she sank down into its depth. The handmaiden sat on a short wooden stool and tugged at her auburn tresses, rubbed her porcelain skin raw, and then dumped more of the scalding liquid on her head, all while Sansa wished for another handmaiden, a friendly one who would be gentle and kind and not spy on her as this one did.  
  
"Would you be careful?" Sansa hissed after one particularly harsh pull on her lovely hair. The woman's hands lightened, but when Sansa glimpsed into her muddy eyes, she found a hardness, a resistance. _She doesn't truly serve me, doesn't even think herself below me._ After her brother had openly declared war on the Iron Throne and the Lannisters atop it, everyone had stopped taking her seriously. They suddenly forgot that she, although young and female, was the blood of an ancient, honorable House, descendant of the Kings in the North and the First Men.  
  
"Apologies, m'lady," she whispered to a sullen Sansa, and then helped her up and out of the bath, toweled her wet skin, presented her with the few tight-fitting dresses she had left. Sansa did her best to appease the woman with a gracious smile. She simply offered her a droll look in return and helped her coil her mane of hair on top of her head in a southron fashion before curtsying and scurrying out of her chambers.  
  
"You look nice and proper," Sandor commented as she closed the heavy door behind her and stepped into the corridor, ready to face Margaery, the future Queen and the object of the commoners' affection. She, with her beauty and charitableness and powerful House, had wormed her way into the hearts of the people of King's Landing easily.  
  
"Thank you," she smiled at her escort and followed behind him as he made way to Lady Margaery's chambers. When they reached the appropriate door, Sandor nodded her way, turned, and stalked off the way they came.  
  
Her solar was warm and sweet-smelling, and the light shinning through the narrow windows illuminated the plates of steaming sausage, hot bread, and fresh fruit on the small table in the center of the room. Margaery was sitting on a plush chair, smiling at something the fat girl before her, Megga, was chattering about, hands gesturing wildly and cheeks flushed. It seemed to Sansa that the heavy girl's cheeks were always reddened.  
  
"Lady Sansa!" Margaery exclaimed, waved her over to the vacant chair across from her. "Come, sit," she smiled prettily," you must be famished." Sansa, tired and nervous, was not. But, in an attempt to not insult her, she plucked a fluffy roll of bread from the array of food set on the table anyway. "Elinor could not join us this morning," she sighed, not knowing that Sansa felt relieved when she realized the Tyrell was nowhere near.  
  
"How unfortunate," she replied, voice perfectly placid and uncommitted. She wouldn't, couldn't offend the young woman sitting across from her, who had saved her from Joffrey and would suffer his wrath in due time. Margaery raised an eyebrow, making Sansa blush for being so transparent in her scrutiny, but kept her silence, allowing the youngest girl in the room to prattle on about court intrigue.  
  
"Oh, Margaery, that Kettleblack will not take his eyes off you," Megga grinned. "You should stop teasing him so!" Sansa did not understand what the girl went on about. _Why would one of Cersei's creatures go after the King's betrothed?_  
  
"I can't help myself," Margaery smirked," it's incredible fun to pull him around like that. As if I would ruin my reputation and myself with him!" she snickered and Megga, the little mockingbird, followed suit. Sansa smiled for the sake of not appearing such a prude, but the reality was that she was. She could not fathom leading a man on like that, teasing him for the sole excitement of it while betrothed to another, a King even.

 

"So you haven't actually done anything with him?" Sansa questioned, picking at the long-since cold roll. Margaery laughed, a hard sound, trying to appear nonchalant, but she could not hide the way her cheeks paled, or her eyes dimmed.  
  
"That would be high treason, Lady Sansa," Margaery threw back, sinking further into the softness of her seat. Sansa smiled back at the rose as she tore off a piece of the bread in her hands and brought it to her mouth.  
  
"Yes, that would not do." There was a tension in the room, it filled the air, clogged their lungs. After a second, Margaery gave Megga a pointed look, and the younger girl blushed and averted her eyes.  
  
"Sansa," she sighed," may I call you that?" Sansa nodded at the older girl, feeling a warmth settle in her stomach at the sort of comradery they shared. "It was brought to my attention that my cousins were not acting as they should towards a lady of your standing." Megga, next to her, turned a new shade of red, and Sansa had to stifle the smile that so wished to grace her pink lips.  
  
"I apologize, Lady Sansa," Megga mumbled," it was not our place to speak to you in such a way." Sansa reached a dainty hand to her chubby one, laying atop the arm of her chair, and gave it a squeeze.  
  
"Apology accepted, Lady Megga," she reassured the young, silly girl, for she had once been the same. She had once, long ago, scolded a little girl for not being like her, for dressing in boy's clothing and wanting to dance in a different way than ladies were supposed to. She regretted it with all of her being now that she had been shoved into this world that was not what it had seemed those years past.

 

A servant pounding on the door startled the three. Margaery called for entrance with a tinge of annoyance in her voice, in her emerald eyes.  
  
"M'lady," the pretty handmaiden, who looked of the same age as Sansa and Margaery, addressed Megga," your mother wishes you to return to your chambers." Megga ducked her head in obvious embarrassment at being summoned by her mother like a small child, but said her goodbyes and left with the handmaiden without protestation.  
  
"Sansa," Margaery said after Megga had been gone a while," do you remember what we spoke of several days past?" Of course she did. How could she forget the subtle proposal she and her thorny grandmother had posed over a meal? All she'd wanted since Joffrey had shedded his handsome guise was to leave this wretched place, and the Tyrell women had offered her just that.  
  
"Yes," Sansa began," I wouldn't forget an extraordinary offer such as that. I would love to visit Highgarden, see it's beauty with mine own eyes." She was not lying. Although she already planned to leave with Sandor, she had always wanted to see Highgarden's widely-rumored perfection. Margaery tucked a lock of her mahogany hair behind a small ear.  
  
"Mayhaps we can truly arrange it then," she reached for her hands and enveloped them in her own. Sansa looked down at the contrast of her alabaster skin against the tan flesh of Margaery. "You can sail for Oldtown with my grandmother...but we'll have to do it quietly, so that they won't know until you are far, far away from here." Her voice was thin and whispery, like the wind in the Godswood as the sun descended into its slumber and the moon asncended onto its temporary throne to guide her way back to her chambers.  

 

"They'll hurt you," she whispered back to her new ally," they'll beat you and try to break you." Her green eyes remained strong, invincible. Margaery, unlike her mother and very much like her grandmother, was a force to be reckoned with. She knew then that this woman would not submit like she had, would not be cowed by even the murderous King on the throne or his equally monstrous mother.  
  
"They won't," there was confidence in her words," they need me too much to abuse me. If they so much as lift a finger against me my grandmother will be on them like Aegon's dragons, and so will the rest of us Tyrells." There was a fond smile on her face and in that moment Sansa could not help the green, bubbling envy from flowing through her whole being. Margery was secure and loved and powerful and, most importantly, her family was whole and unblemished. Sansa would never again be able to boast such a feat. She could never say that her family would come to her aid because, as much as she hated to admit it, after months, years of waiting and enduring the beatings and the humiliation, her brother was still a world away, too busy to do anything in her defense.

  
Sansa nodded at her, giving in, and Margery's defined lips, shapely but small, spread wide in a smile so blinding it could contest the sun's shining.  
  
-  
  
That warm evening, as Sandor stood ready to leave her there outside her door, she craned her neck left and right hurriedly before pulling on the sleeve of his arm, peculiarly unarmored, and dragging him into her blisteringly hot chambers.  
  
"What's gotten into you?" he grumbled, fixing the sleeve of his newly-wrinkled tunic, watching her as she hastily slid the heavy metal bolt across the thick door. When she turned back to him, her big eyes were soft, pliant and she was biting on her lower lip, a nervous habit she rarely let show.  
  
"Stay a while," she brushed slender fingers through her long, silken tresses, watched as Sandor's eyes followed their journey and the way her body curved. She pushed his obvious discomfort aside with a simple sweep of her hair and moved toward the small seating near the hearth, which had a crackling fire going in preparation for her timely arrival.  
  
He gave a noncommittal grunt and hunkered down onto the small, elegant chair across from hers, looking horridly out of place. Sansa wondered if he'd ever even been inside another lady's chambers, sat down by the hearth to provide company. Seeing how awkward his big form looked, almost teetering off the fragile-looking chair, she decided that he had most absolutely never been in such a situation as this.  
  
"Cersei wants to have you married," he told her after a breath," soon." Sansa, already knowing this, still could not keep the knots in her stomach from forming and pulling and pulling until she felt she might wretch all over Sandor's shoes.  
  
"I know, but...if we're gone-"  
  
"Soon means soon, little bird." His voice was already resigned and Sansa found a flame licking at her insides, building and climbing up her chest.  
  
"Margaery wants me to sneak off to Highgarden," she pointed out, jutting her defined, elfin chin out at him. A terribly sad, sour kind of smile pulled at his lips.  
  
"To be married to someone," he said," the same as Cersei's plot." She reeled, trying to find a way to deflect the accusation that Margaery, pretty, kind, smart Margaery, was, like everyone else in the unforgiving world, _using_ her. Of course, she could not, because using her was exactly what Ollenna Tyrell, old and shrewd, planned to do, was doing at that very moment by shoving thoughts of running with her into her head. _They expect me to be a good little pawn,_ she thought to herself bitterly. The fire burning in her chest froze over.  
  
"We could use them too," she leaned forward, delivering something secret, forbidden. "We could use them just as well, Sandor."


	5. corrupt youth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***For those of you who are receiving a double notification, I reposted the chapter because for some reason it would not appear on the relationship tag page, which made it hard for readers who are not subricribed to read it :(
> 
> Thank you for the lovely comments on the last chapter (and the ones on the old version of this one)! Happy holidays to all <3

 

 

chapter 4: corrupt youth

 

 

          Margaery stared at her over the lid of her ornate goblet, eyes full of warning. Cersei's cat eyes watched Sansa's every move until she removed the wine from her lips and readied herself to fire an excuse. Margaery beat her to it.

  
"I fear Sansa is not able to attend you at the moment," she smiled, a sharp thing, full of shrouded malice and pride at having outmaneuvered the aging Queen," for I cannot possibly let her go." The future royal reached for one of Sansa's smooth-skinned hands and squeezed affectionately. Sansa hoped the shaking of her other hand, stuffed between the folds of her freshly-made summer dress, was not as obvious as it felt.   
  
"Hmm," Cersei raised an arched eyebrow," we will speak later then, little dove," she said to Sansa, lingeringly, green eyes boiling with poorly-controlled rage and irritation. Deep down she knew she should have ignored Margaery and followed Cersei, for her own sake, but she refused to feel regret at her defiance.   
  
"Yes, Your Grace," she bowed her head instead of apologizing and excusing herself from Margery's company and satisfying the evil queen. Cersei's lips curled in thinly-veiled disdain as she turned from the two beautiful women, two testaments to her age and deteriorating appearance.   
  
"I wonder what she could have wanted with you, Sansa," Margaery murmured after the door to her solar closed behind the Queen and the handmaiden who had announced her arrival in a thin, papery voice. Sansa took another sip of her sweet wine, a burgundy liquid that brought a flush to her swan neck, and traced along the stones on her goblet, a gift from Margaery, who had received it from Joffrey as a courting present.   
  
"Mayhaps another fitting," she proposed. The last week had been full of dress fittings and adjustments, all ordered by Cersei with a dizzying sort of haste. It made her uneasy because such splendid finery and expensive labor that must have cost many gold dragons, gold that the crown did not actually _have_ , would only be wasted on a relation of the crown, something that Sansa was no longer. She had no blood affiliation and, officially, no marriage prospects with either a Lannister or a Baratheon. _So then why would Cersei spend so much on a new wardrobe?_  
  
She let hope trickle into her mind. Perhaps, but only perhaps, Cersei had finally convinced Joffrey that Sansa really was of no worth, only a pawn that was worth the life of the Kingslayer, and they were making arrangements for some sort of exchange between Stark and Lannister. It made sense, too much sense for the like of the monster King.   
  
"How droll," Margaery sighed, threading a hand through her thick braid of chestnut hair. "When you get to Highgarden, my grandmother will send to have you a whole other wardrobe made," she assured Sansa, boasted really. She could tell from the careless way she threw such promises around that Margaery had always gotten what she wanted, always. She had wanted to be Queen, so she married Lord Renly, and when that didn't work out, she settled for the next best thing; Joffrey Baratheon, ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.   
  
"How kind of her," Sansa smiled, sweet and disarming. She could not be found out, not when they had worked everything out to the last detail. No one was stopping Sansa from finally getting a choice, no one. 

 

* * *

 

  
  
          "You stay with her all the time, Sansa," Sandor rasped from across her, hands on his knees to keep from falling off of the small chair. They were in her chambers, sitting next to the warmth radiating from the hearth.   
  
"Why?" she questioned, pulling more watered wine down her throat, relishing the sweet, sweet path it burned into its flesh as it trickled down. It was as if Sandor was adamant about following its course by the way his eyes roved down the marble column of her neck, on display while her auburn curls were bunched at the top of her head.   
  
"Cersei. If you're with the Tyrell, she won't be able to drag you off and lock you away until you submit to marriage with whatever fucking lord they've chosen." Sansa nodded, understanding dawning on her. Being around Margaery constantly had made life at the Red Keep slightly more bearable. There was still whispers, still ribald jests behind her back, but Sansa had learned long ago that things such as those would never go away, not for a woman as beautiful, as prominent as herself. She would always be the center of attention, and the center of attention attracted talk and ridicule.   
  
"I don't believe it will still her hand much longer," Sansa murmured, standing on her slightly unsteady feet in order to get to her vanity. She plopped down onto the polished bench as Sandor arose.   
  
"It won't bloody matter in a sennight or two," he rasped, coming to stand behind her as she reached for the pins holding the mass of hair atop her head secured. His hands were plucking them out before hers were even halfway to the base of her neck. She sought his eyes out through the mirror, and when he found them she thought he looked as surprised by his actions as she was. "We'll be far away from this hellhole and Cersei will seethe and Joffrey will call for your head but we won't be anywhere near to worry over his kicking and screaming," he nearly crooned, fingers threading through the softness of her strands carefully.   
  
"That sounds wonderful," she smiled, lids heavy and lowered so that when Sandor looked in the mirror he was met with the sight of twin crescent sapphires darker than he'd ever seen. Sansa watched him as he worked, throwing each pin on the vanity top haphazardly when he had slid it out of its confines. He searched for her eyes in the looking glass again, and when he found them it was as if some spell was set on her, or at least it was the only possible justification for the way her stomach fluttered or how her neck flushed with vigor.   
  
"Aye." Her hair was free now, tumbling down to her narrow waist in a kind of tamed wildness, like fire encased in water. She followed his hands through the mirror, watched them run through her curls slowly, languidly, minding their willfulness and avoiding any knots. Sansa found the sensations from his playing with her hair pleasant. For a second, she wished he could help let her hair down every night, but he was no handmaiden and she was not his.   
  
"It appears to me that you've never seen hair before," she jested, but instead of fanning the flames, she realized she had doused them as he let his hands fall to his sides. The corner of his mouth began to twitch when she picked up a brush, silver with beautiful markings and indentations along its handle. She remembered his mouth against hers then, when they met sloppily as he took her.   
  
"I've never touched a _lady's_ hair," he said, edged, and the way he said lady made her feel dirty, as if the title was something putrid and soiled. She dropped the elegant brush back on the vanity after a few strokes and then turned on the bench, making her face level with his waist. Everything had been so nice until then. Sansa didn't know what had crawled up Sandor's... Her cheeks reddened when she realized where her thoughts were going, how inappropriate, how vulgar.   
  
"What is that supposed to mean?" Her voice was boiling, her face rosy. Sandor smiled, but the way it was all barbed and rough around the edges made it seem more like a sneer.   
  
"A great lady like you shouldn't be letting a dog like me touch her hair," he snorted, and began to pull away, move towards the giant door of her chambers. Sansa reached out for his sleeve, but her fingers only grasped the empty air as he traveled the last of the distance to the wooden exit in a few quick steps. Before he could open it, she rose from the bench and made her way to him.   
  
"Oh, you've done more than that," she laughed at his back, flinching when it came out more bitter, more clumsy than she meant for it to be and Sandor cringed. It was as if her words were a blow to his soul, which sported its own kind of twisted honor. He turned around and suddenly she was standing before him, upturned nose to his chest, bosom rising with every deep, irritated breath. She grabbed at one of his wrists, and almost smiled when he didn't pull it away from her hands.   
  
"Watch yourself, girl," he growled, but remained motionless, limp hand in between hers. She hated that. She absolutely abhorred when Sandor treated her as if she was still the same stupid little child she had been when he first met her long ago, when her father was still breathing, King Robert was still whoring, and the whole court perfected the mummery needed to draw Sansa into their clutches, not that she made it difficult for them to blind her, to seduce her with silk dresses and sweet wines and gallant knights.   
  
"Girl?" she edged closer, grip tightening instinctively. "I am sure you didn't think me a girl when you were f-" He stopped her by ripping his hand from her grip.   
  
"What are you going on about?" His voice was quiet, but only because they were still in the Red Keep, where there was spies and nosy handmaidens and innumerable threats lurking just around the corner. Sansa, for a second, didn't know how to answer.     
  
"I'm...I'm not a child, Sandor. I have not been a child for the longest time." His face, rough and jagged, softened slightly. She wondered if her overreaction made him doubt her. Ladies didn't throw tantrums, or grab men twice their size roughly, or say the word _fucking_.   
  
"Not for the longest time," he repeated, lifting a hand to her chin and tipping her face up higher. For a fleeting moment, she thought he meant to lean down only a handbreadth to connect the gap between his face and hers. Instead, he only looked down with unreadable eyes, tracing the line of her nose bridge, the curve of her top lip, the way her eyes slanted under her scrutiny. She remembered another time she had thrown herself at him, another time she had stood under his evaluating gaze, clear as day _. "I'll ruin you."_  
  
"Goodnight," she told him as she pulled her face from his hold and made her way toward her large featherbed. He stood in front of the door until she was swathed in the fresh linens atop the mattress and her eyelids were dropping without her consent.   
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
"Ah, Lady Sansa!" His green eyes lit up in malevolent joy. She tried to hide her trembling hands in the folds of her dress, as she always did, but she knew that he knew she was fearful even without seeing the evidence.   
  
"Your Grace," she curtsied, and could almost hear the smile take shape on his full lips. When she looked up again she could not ignore the disgust in Sandor's eyes, though she could not tell exactly who made him feel that way. She hoped it was Joffrey.   
  
"Trant," he called for his favorite thug, following Sandor, but he knew would not lay a hand on her," close the door." Her alarm was mirrored in Sandor's pools of grey. She knew she shouldn't have come, should have feigned an ailment of sorts, but she had believed the risk of following Jeffrey's order to meet him at his chambers would be better than that of having to suffer Grand Maester Pycelle’s unpleasant touches.   
  
"For what purpose have you summoned me, Your Grace?" Joffrey only sat down on a chair situated in the corner of the room and poured himself Arbor gold in a goblet bedecked in garnets. From the corner of her eye she could see Sandor practically plaster himself to the wall.   
  
"My mother wants you married," he drawled out after a few nerve-racking sips of his cup," and I made a promise to you that you would receive the honor of warming my bed, did I not?" His wormy lips were smiling hard, making her heart beat faster than his words had. Sansa could tell when Joffrey was lying, and that smile told her all she needed to know.   
  
"Your Grace," she pleaded calmly as she sank down to her knees in the center of the King's bedchamber," that would ruin me." In the back of her mind, she found it ridiculous that she had already been ruined, yet here she was begging for the honor that was long gone. Meryn Trant laughed from his post by the door.   
  
"Oh, Sansa," Joffrey snickered," you should feel beyond gracious to be offered such a high position. Not every traitor's daughter receives the honor of climbing into bed with the King." She thought that if she had to be in a bed with him, she would be dragged rather than climbing in herself. Sandor behind her snorted, but instead of becoming suspicious, Joffrey, full of drink and ill-conjured glee, found amusement in it.   
  
"Mayhaps I'll let you have a turn, dog," he told Sandor, and then stood. Sansa was still on the floor, skirts fanned around her trembling form. When Joffrey found out that he wasn't having the first taste of her, she would be executed, just like her father had been. She closed her eyes when he wrapped his fingers around her throat. "Stop that, Sansa." She only quaked harder and he tightened his grip. She knew she was only feeding the monster, but she could not stop herself, she could not hide the fear resonating through her so thoroughly.   
  
"Please, Your Grace," she whispered, so frail and mousy," have mercy." That was her mistake. Sansa knew first-hand what Jeffrey's mercy tasted like. He clenched and pulled her up, sucking the air out of her lungs in one fluid motion.   
  
"As you wish." Then, before she could contemplate what he meant to do, she was on his bed, a large, soft, feathery prison, and he was between her legs and her bodice was between his hands. He was trying to rip the silk, but he was not strong enough, not like Sandor, who would have ripped through it on the first try. "Dog!" He nearly shrieked, cheeks heating up in mild embarrassment. Sansa knew it would be worse then, for he became harsher when he was undermined, as if it helped him feel more of a man. Sandor did not move to hand him a weapon, remaining frozen against the wall.   
  
"Joff, please!" she cried, putting her hands on his red cheeks, trying to draw out the little humanity that _had_ to reside deep within him. He couldn't be a complete monster through and through. There had to be some good left in the damaged, spoiled rotten boy. He looked down at her coldly and held out a hand to one of his Kingsguard members, one of the Kettleblack brothers. Ser Osmund placed a dagger, a gaudy thing with a hilt made of gems, in Jeffrey's palm with his head lowered. Sansa wondered if he felt any shame, then looked at Sandor. She could see the fight his eyes, how he struggled between helping her, to whom he owed no real allegiance to, and obeying the orders of a Lannister, as he had done the entirety of his life.   
  
"Let's see those teats again!" Joffrey whopped and then slashed through the bodice of the dress his mother had ordered her only a sennight past, exposing her milky flesh, which was illuminated and made even more beautiful by the glowing of the twin hearths. Sansa moved her hands to her chest in an attempt to salvage the last shreds of her modesty, but Joffrey pushed them away ungently. Trant's eyes were on her skin within a second, watching as Joffrey took one of her soft, pillowy breasts into one of his inexperienced hands. His touch was a different feeling that Sandor's, one a hundred times more unpleasant. She closed her eyes, but the tears still made their way out of her tightly sealed eyelids. She prayed to the Mother for mercy and hoped that it would be over soon.   
  
"Your Grace," came Sandor's rough voice, unusually soft and cautious. She opened her eyes slightly to see him standing only a few paces away, eyes looking anywhere but at her. Joffrey ripped her skirts before turning to him.  
  
"I said you could have my leftovers," he reminded him, her only hope, and then began shifting the heavy fabric away from her legs, leaving them bare to his greedy eyes. Sansa felt his hardness against her thigh and tried her best to repress bile from coming out her mouth. It was of no use though, because before Joffrey could begin to remove his clothing, Sansa was retching all over his fine bedding, earning his enraged shouts.   
  
"Joffrey!" In the middle of the commotion came a woman's shriek, a golden lioness scolding her monstrous cub. Cersei stood at the foot of the bed, dressed in red velvet and sporting a look of annoyance. Sansa knew the woman didn't truly care about her well-being, but thanked her silently anyway.   
  
"Mother," Joffrey climbed off of Sansa and stood before Cersei, defiant even when caught red-handed. Sansa held her ruined bodice together with shaking hands as she sat up on the bed. The tears trailing down her cheeks were of relief. "You said that I-" he stopped abruptly as everyone in the room stiffened and turned toward the gaping doorway, where Margaery stood, face aghast and skin sickly pale. One look at her face and Sansa knew that she had obviously put together the pieces of the scene before her.   
  
"Margaery, dear," Cersei held out a hand in comfort, as if her future good-daughter was a wild animal. Margaery curled her lips in a pathetic attempt at a smile. Sansa envied her cool, the way her mask almost never slipped. She wished she was half as skilled in acting as she. Margaery tugged on a lock of hair as she stepped into the crowded room.   
  
"I...I am here to escort Lady Sansa back to her chambers," she smoothed her skirts, waiting as Sansa slipped from the featherbed slowly and walked toward her cautiously while holding her dress together with her hands. No one raised a finger in protest, not against the daughter of Lord Mace, whose men and gold and food the Crown needed so desperately. As soon as they were in the hallway Margaery wrapped a thin arm around Sansa and moved them through Maegor’s Holdfast quickly.   
  
"Thank you," Sansa murmured through pale lips, clenching the torn fabric in her fingers. Her companion squeezed her shoulder with the hand of the arm around her. Sansa did not know what the rose meant to do. Would this delay their plans? She didn't know how longer she could bear being trapped in the Red Keep, surrounded by liars and sadists and schemers.   
  
"Was that the first time?" Margaery questioned outside Sansa's door. Beneath the genuine worry for her safety, Sansa could see the cunning, the true question in her words. _Am I a maiden? Has Joffrey had me before?_ Sansa thought that the truth of her maidenhood's disappearance would be worse than what Margaery assumed, but lied in the end anyway.   
  
"Yes," she responded and pushed the heavy oak and iron door open. Inside, the hearth was cold and dead and her bedsheets remained tangled and used. Margaery wrinkled her nose at the sight but still climbed atop her untidy bed alongside Sansa.   
  
"My grandmother is planning on taking you with her after the wedding, but..." she trailed off, fingering the torn silk draping Sansa's slender body," but I think it's best if you leave within a sennight. Cersei and Joff have become too unpredictable, " she sighed and dropped her hand from the evidence of Joffrey's cruelty. Sansa nodded and dragged the bedsheet up and around her shoulders.   
  
"I think that would be best as well," Sansa said, trying to keep her voice steady. "Who will I be traveling with if not your grandmother?" She tried to sound casual, uninterested, and hoped that whomever accompanied her was of no consequence, someone that she and Sandor could easily dispose of. Margaery took hold of one of her cold hands and rubbed the soft skin with the intention to reassure, but what she truly managed to achieve was the feeling of guilt in the plotting Sansa, who felt bad for even thinking about getting rid of an innocent only following through with their duties, for having sunk so low, for having lost the youthful glamour she donned when she had arrived at the sour city.

“We will see,” she gave Sansa a dainty smile, the like of which she also stored in her arsenal of ladylike persuasion. “Don't worry about a thing, darling. We will get you out of here soon enough.” Sansa smiled back. Escape was the only fruitful promise driving her, and its sweet, splendid execution was close enough to taste.


	6. exits and entrances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New POV!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In need of beta!

chapter 5: exits and entrances

 

 

 

**Sansa**

 

She awoke to the sound of a soft scratching on wood.   
  
"Margaery?" Sansa whispered into the cool night air, feeling still and calm in the suspense. The scratching only increased in intensity, prompting her to take action. She slipped from the tall featherbed, her feet hitting the stones underfoot with a loud smack, and flinched at the noise, knowing the need for absolute stealth and silence and how she had already disturbed the quiet only moments into the scheme. Keeping the danger in mind, she draped her fine robe over the thin shift she had on and snatched a dagger from between the thick mattresses she had lain on only moments past.   
  
"Sansa," came the sweet voice of her friend, the woman destined to take the place she had once longed for, begged of the Gods even, from the other side of the entrance to her quarters. She felt her shoulders sag in relief, but tucked the small, jeweled dagger, a gift from Sandor, into the bodice of her smallclothes anyway. No one was ever truly safe in the Red Keep, she knew, and she was not going to be snuffed out when freedom was practically an arm's length away.   
  
"What took you so long, girl?" Sansa blanched at the sight of Sandor behind Margaery's small, slim frame.  _This was not the_   _plan_ , she thought, taking in the other girl's composed face. She had expected it to be necessary to beg Margaery to allow Sandor to come along. She had imagined running to his room on light feet and rousing him to join the party. She knew her transparency let them in on her cluelessness, but she did not care then.   
  
"What are you doing here?" she hissed in a hushed tone, uncaring even of Margaery's presence. Not even the way her quick, cocoa eyes widened at the familiarity between the two seemed to matter at that moment. Sandor made an unpleasant face and moved past the threshold and into the darkened room, leaving the future Queen to follow behind and Sansa to stand and stare.   
  
"He came to my grandmother and offered to be of service," Margaery whispered, " and she could not let such renowned skill slip through her fingers." _Of course_ , she thought,  _a killer such as him is always a great tool to those higher._    
  
"You need to get yourself some clothes," Sandor contributed from his position near her vanity. She moved toward her bed quickly, her flowy garb making her appear a spectre trapped in this place of horrors for all eternity, and stuck a hand beneath its frame. She procured a rough-looking cloth sack stuffed to its limit with the few new dresses Cersei had given her out of obligation. How could a Lannister bride be clothed in dresses that were far too tight, silk that was thin and old, and skirts that fell to far, far above her ankle, after all? With every passing day she had felt the knowledge of Cersei's plans grow stronger in her gut, and now, knowing that she was about to dash them to bits and pieces gave her a joy that was nearly euphoric.   
  
"It has been done," she informed the two, looking from one shadowed face to another. Margaery's full lips tilted in a crooked smile that only she could make beautiful and grabbed Sansa's hand in her cold fingers. She could tell Margaery had been out in the chilly halls of the Keep by the raised bumps on her lovely arms and the coolness of her skin, making her feel guilty for having taken so long already.   
  
"We must make haste," she exhaled," the spyder has allowed us to use his fancy little tunnels until dawn, so we must needs hurry and get you on that ship before the captain loses his taste for intrigue and treason."  _Lord Varys?_ Sansa asked internally as Margaery pulled her from the room and Sandor followed closely. She did not know why the court gossip would help the Tyrells when under the Lannisters' thumbs he was as powerful as ever. Sansa took a steadying breath and stopped her feet from moving forward at the same pace as her companions.   
  
"Why is Lord Varys helping us?" she asked of her friend, her liberator in a way. Sandor crossed his thick arms across his chest, exasperation clear on his hideous face, and Sansa turned to scowl at him.   
  
"That does not matter right now," Margaery groaned softly and yanked her along several steps down the corridor. She observed the older girl and noticed that she was fixated on the large door at the end of the structure,  a set of rooms she knew had remained uninhabited since Aerys Targaryen's reign.   
  
"Margaery, please," Sansa whispered into the furiously focused brunette's ear," tell me why he would help your family whisk away the key to the North?" The young woman turned and her eyes, usually warm and inviting, were narrowed in annoyance so strong that Sansa reeled back in fearful shock. She had never seen her so…uncomposed.   
  
"We are not the only ones who want the Lannisters gone, Sansa!" she hissed at the taller girl quietly so as to not alert the guards stationed throughout the Keep. "Now, would you please stop blabbering and hurry?" she huffed and continued speeding along without waiting for a confirmation from Sansa, who sulked and pouted behind her. She despised being spoken to like Margery had only a moment ago. She abhorred being treated like a vapid little girl who was only good to breed and listen to those more powerful than she was.   
  
When they reached the door at the end of the hall, Margaery placed a small hand on the rich wood and pushed it open softly, so as to avoid the creaking of long disuse. Sandor, once inside, walked quickly to an elegant wardrobe nestled in the far wall of the dusty bedroom. He opened its thick doors and reached into its depths, grunting with effort.   
  
"Got it," he sighed in relief. Sansa neared the curious bit of furniture and peeked inside to find darkness where the back panel should have been. Sandor, who had the missing panel in his massive hands, handed it to Margaery gently and then grabbed Sansa's slender shoulder. "It's an opening to the tunnels underneath this bloody city. We should be able to resurface somewhere near the harbor," he informed her in his gravelly voice, mercifully filling her in. She felt slightly bitter that he knew more than her when she was the important one in the Tyrell's eyes.   
  
"Sansa," the Tyrell reached forward when she turned," please forgive me for snapping at you just now. We are to be sisters soon and sisters must not behave as such," she gave her a tight smile and squeezed her hand almost painfully. Sansa found it funny, considering how pain was all her true sister ever brought her. A pang of sudden sorrow made its home deep in her chest. Sometimes, late at night, she would roll the memories of bratty, brave Arya back and forth in her mind and weep tears thick with regret.   
  
"I forgive you." She returned the squeeze and followed Sandor into the opening in the back of the wardrobe. 

* * *

 

 

**Arya**

 

  
They opened the gates as soon as they saw her staggering in the rain, her soaked clothes plastered to her sickly pale skin.   
  
She was delirious and all the faces blurred together into a wave of people clustering around her. Women who she did not know wept and caressed her shaggy hair. Men unknown to her shouted to the pouring skies in celebration. The children danced around her weary feet. Arya barely had enough time to protest before large men with fish-crest helms broke through the thickness of the rejoicing castlefolk and took ahold of her arms.   
  
"Let go of me!" she slurred and wriggled against the guards, fighting them every step of the way so that by the time they wrestled their way to freedom, they simply gave up and the taller one hauled her up into his arms. She fought him in that vulnerable position too, but soon the boiling blood in her veins was too much to stand. Grudgingly, she ceased her resistance and softened in the man's arms.   
  
Through hazy, warm eyes she saw the sandstone walls of the castle melted together in a scene so distorted that she could not bear it. She closed her eyes instead and listened to the sounds of excitement in the air. When she opened her eyes again there was more people. Dressed in the furs of the North and gathered around a long table, they could only gape at her arrival.   
  
"Arya!" It was her mother's cry that shattered the silence, her mother's arms that tore her from the guard's and rolled her into a sweet embrace. It was almost too much to take. Only then, after months of holding back the pain and sorrow, did she allow her tough exterior to crumble and the tears to pour down her dirty, flushed face.   
  
She was  _safe._

* * *

  
  
  
                                    **Sansa**  
  
  
"Lady Sansa."   
  
Tyrell men littered the vessel wearing green on this sleeves with pride. The other men, those with bare sleeves and empty eyes, hauled crates from the misty dock up onto the deck and deep into the ship's storage. When she saw him standing still in the flurry of motion, posture straight and face smiling, her heart skipped a beat. His pointed beard glistened in the dewy morning light and his eyes, although surrounded by lines of joy, were flat and grey. Sansa marveled at the way it seemed his smiling mouth and cold eyes were not connected. A neat trick.  
  
"Lord Baelish," she greeted the smaller man, looking down into his eyes rather than the other way around. She knew her stature was unusual for a girl her age just as she knew men detested it. They hated having to look up at her pretty face and the feeling of inferiority that followed. Petyr Baelish did not seem to mind, though, Sansa observed while looking at him sideways. Normally, she would not have felt safe around so many strangers, but Sandor walked close behind and she knew that here, where there was no Lannisters to fear, he would not fail to save her another time.   
  
"It is alright, dear. You may call me Petyr," he patted her arm and led her into the ship's common room. There was a large trestle table at its center and farther away a few benches against the wall. She sat on the unsanded wood as daintily as she could and looked back at Lord Baelish expectantly. He looked to have something on his mind. Sansa could only hope he would tell her about their next stop. Her plan, although risky and untested, was still the only plan she had, and so she could only grasp onto it blindly.   
  
"The captain insists on several stops in order to sell his wares," he complained. Sansa struggled to hide the small smile of satisfaction that so itched to grace her lips. There was no doubt that her plan had some grounding now. She could see it unfolding in her mind's eye, so distracted that she missed whatever else Petyr may have revealed about their journey.  _Oh, dear_ , she fretted, and perhaps her mask finally broke because the man beside her was instantly alert and asking her if anything was the matter.   
"Oh, it's just…" she bit her lip, hoping that her wide, innocent eyes were enough to disarm him," I don't feel so well." She clutched onto her flat stomach for added effect and reveled in her success when his blue-grey eyes softened.   
  
"Say no more," he stroked her arm and helped her up. "The Lady Sansa feels ill, please escort her to her cabin and make sure she is safe." The men who stepped up to stow her away were tall and brawny, making her doubt she would be less than 'safe' in their care. As she left the already crowded room she wondered what had become of Sandor and jealously figured he had snagged one of the whores abroad and defiled some odd darkened corner of the ship.   
  
The room was cramped and musty. No light was present other than the one she created by lighting a candle. Her mattress was thin and stuffed with straw, making her long for the comforts of the castle without sound thought. Nestled into the scratchy swaths of fabric atop her uncomfortable bed, she let the tears she had stored away come loose and soak the shapeless pillow beneath her head. I am safe , she lied to herself, only thinking of the relief of having survived the nightmare that began when Cersei ripped her innocent Lady from her young arms. As long as the blood of the North, the blood of Winterfell, flowed through her she would never be safe.   
  
The ship began to pull away from the bay and far off she could hear the Great Sept of Baelor's bells sing their sweet, urgent cries as the city awoke to a castle without a Princess. 

* * *

  
**Arya**

  
  
For the first time in moons, she woke to warmth.   
  
She bolted upright in the soft featherbed, unaccustomed to comfort after so long. After surveying the room, she realized someone had lit a fire in the hearth and piled a mountain of woolen blankets over her. Someone had bathed her in her sleep, she noticed when she ran a hand through her clean mane of hair.   
  
There was a single window in the room and on closer inspection Arya decided that the darkness could only mean that she had slept all day. It all seemed a dream rather than reality. One second she had been riding, fevered and starved, and the next she was in her mother's arms, safe and sound even after everything. She could still remember Gendry's face as she stole away from the Brotherhood and it made her heart hurt. He was a true friend, her only true friend, and now she did not doubt she would never see him again.   
  
Upset at the path her thoughts took, she shook his sad ice eyes from her head angrily and tiptoed toward the door. When she unfastened the latch and pushed it open, she found no guards with fish heads outside and breathed in relief. Arya walked the lonely halls of her mother's childhood as silently as she could, and did not come to a halt until she heard the woman herself.   
  
"We cannot go now, Robb." Arya pressed herself to the door that muffled her voice. Why did her mother sound worried? Through the wood she could hear pacing feet and the sound of burning wood's pops and sparks.   
  
"He will not forget this slight either, mother." _Robb!_  Arya could have cried right then from the pure joy of hearing her brother. His voice was deeper than it had been the last time she saw him, back when their family was whole. She closed her eyes and imagined him now. In her mind, his shoulders were broad, his cheeks rough and covered in a beard as red as the bleeding sunrise. "He is already far too insulted."   
  
"Your sister has just returned to us!" She had never heard her mother like this, standing her ground loudly. It was the sort of behavior she had always knocked down in favor of Sansa's demure nature. "He will know of her arrival soon enough, but if we attend this wedding he will want her now." Her heart was beating hard within her chest. Who could possibly want her and for what? As far as she knew, she had not gone off and betrothed herself to anyone like stupid Sansa. Stupid, beautiful, naive Sansa.   
  
"With his men gone the odds are not in our favor." Her brother sighed heavily and then there was the sounds of heavy fabrics rustling.   
  
"We still have the Kingslayer," her lady mother comforted him. She envisioned her rubbing his back soothingly like she used to back then.   
  
"Is she still resting?" Robb inquired worriedly and it took her a moment to realize that he was asking about her.  _Shit._ Arya was off before she could get caught, speeding down the unfamiliar halls until she stumbled upon the chamber she recognized as hers. She closed the heavy door as softly as she could and jumped back into the bed, waiting to be checked on.   
  
Her lady mother did not take long, walking into the warm room only several minutes later. Arya let her eyes flutter closed and waited some more, breath bated. She began to worry when her mother did not step closer, but after one shaky breath, she came near and settled on the edge of the bed. It reminded Arya of good night wishes from years past.   
  
"Arya, my sweet girl," she cooed and brushed an uncomfortably rough palm over the side of her face. The surprise of finding scars all over her mother's hand was enough to make her open her eyes instantly. She questioned how she had earned the raised ridges, but did not ask her outright. She simply took in her face, noticed how much she had aged since she had last looked upon her elegant countenance. Her beautiful auburn hair was streaked with silver and her previously flawless skin had begun to crease.   
  
"We thought you were in King's Landing," she sighed. "They claimed both you and your sister as hostages." Arya could not help but snort.   
  
"They lied," she said plainly. "I was taken from the capital the day father was murdered, then the Lannisters got their hands on me, but they didn't know it was me..." she trailed off when her mother's frown became too prominent to ignore.   
  
"We will talk again on the morrow, as a family," she smiled strongly and ran her hands over her eyes and cheeks and lips.   
  
Arya thought mayhaps she felt it was all an impossible dream too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got this up! I'd been conflicted because it seems so unpolished to me.


End file.
